Stars and Boulevards
by Jacqueline Albright-Beckett
Summary: Abandoned trials. Fallen angels. A (mostly) cured demon. A Knight of Hell on the loose. The shards of Heaven in the hands of a vengeful megalomaniac. And two men determined the hold back the tide. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
1. Prologue

The shrieking of the alarms finally - blessedly - stilled, aside from one warbling trill somewhere downstairs. Kevin sank against a wall, heart still pounding, and laced his fingers together to try and stop their trembling. It took several moments before the adrenaline started to go sour and he was able to take a deep shaky breath and turn toward the stairs.

The pounding on the door nearly made him stumble, his lungs freezing as his mind flicked through the possibilities and options he had. There was someone at the door. The alarms - whatever they had been for - had just sounded. They could have gone off for whoever or whatever was at the door. Kevin should stay upstairs, be very quiet, and pretend to not exist. He was good at that.

The pounding came again - more staggered, weaker. It didn't have the same threatening thunder from before. Kevin leaned over the railing to stare at the door. It could be the Winchesters. Kevin had the key, after all - and it didn't seem likely that they had made copies, considering the box it had been stored in. They hadn't said how long they would be gone. Now that he thought about it, they hadn't said they would be back at all, but his mind shied away from that line of reasoning.

Again. Just once, a single impact against the door, with an unmistakable desperate sound to it. Kevin hesitantly descended several stairs without realizing it before stopping himself.

The pounding did not come again.

If it had not been so silent - even the tinny alarm upstairs had quieted by now - Kevin might not have heard it, given how thick the door was and the insulation of the hill into which the bunker was built.

"Dean..."

For the third time in a very short span, Kevin's stomach dropped in a deadly cold lurch and he flung himself down the staircase, jumping down the last several steps as he launched himself at the door. He did not exactly fling it open, heavy as it was, but he did wrench his shoulder painfully as he tried.

The scene before him was not what he'd expected. For that voice to sound that weak, he'd expected blood. Bruises. Contusions. He'd expected the overcoat to be torn, the white shirt nearly black with an unmistakable dark stain.

Instead, Castiel looked nearly pristine, slumped against the doorframe, holding his side. Kevin tore his eyes away from the survey of the nonexistent injuries to meet Castiel's eyes, and his breath caught.

"You're not Dean." If Castiel's voice had not been trembling, it could almost have been accusatory. Light glistened off his tearstained cheeks. "This is the Bunker. Where is Dean?"

Kevin blinked. "I - I don't know - Cas, are you hurt?"

Castiel seemed unable to focus his eyes; they stared straight ahead, as though piercing some veil that Kevin couldn't see. "I need Dean."

"I don't know where he is. Are you hurt?" Kevin repeated, peering to try and see why the angel was clasping his hand so tightly against his side. "What happened?"

"I...?"

Castiel's eyelids fluttered and his chin nodded forward. Belatedly, Kevin reached out a steadying hand, which by necessity turned into a grip on the angel's arm as Castiel's legs folded and Kevin eased him to the ground as gently as he could.

"Cas? Cas!" Kevin fumbled for a pulse, but felt nothing - would an angel even have a pulse? They breathed, and Castiel was still doing that, but his eyes were dilated and staring into middle space and try as he might, Kevin could not find any spot on Castiel's neck or wrist where there was so much as a flutter.

He was not altogether sure how he had made it upstairs to his backpack, nor how he had dialed his phone with such shaky fingers.

"911, please state your emergency."


	2. Barely Controlled Chaos

The curtain swished as the nurse pulled it closed behind her, providing some semblance of isolation from the barely controlled chaos of the emergency room. Dean looked up from Sam's motionless form on the bed expectantly. "Well?"

"Mr. Page. I need you to sign some consent forms for a packed blood cell transfusion. The blood is already on its way." The nurse glanced at Sam. "Whatever your brother was using did a number on him. His hematocrit is so low that I'm astounded he's still alive. Hematocrit is the percentage of red blood cells in a sample," the nurse explained as Dean opened his mouth, incorrectly assuming that Dean had been about to ask. "I think your brother got into something that was contaminated. There almost weren't enough living cells in the samples we took for the lab to analyze."

Dean reached up to wipe his upper lip uselessly. It clearly didn't matter what Dean said: the nurse was going to insist on the idea that Sam was strung out on something. Given the punctures and bruises on Sam's forearms, Dean didn't particularly blame her. "Okay. Where do I sign?"

The nurse flipped open the file she was holding and produced a pen; Dean gave the form a cursory glance and scribbled something illegible at the bottom. "Is he going to be all right?"

The nurse's lips formed a thin line. "Once we've stabilized his blood pressure and gotten his blood delivering oxygen to his organs again, we'll have a better idea. I've already called upstairs to admit him for the night. We may need to keep him longer, depending on what he's got in his system." She leveled a stern gaze at him, eyebrow set in an inquisitive curve.

Dean threw his hands up, frustrated. "I don't know. I honestly don't. I don't know what you're going to find. Just - get him better. Please." He licked his lips, suddenly very aware of the burning lump at the back of his throat. "He's my little brother, and he's - he's all I've got."

Something in Dean's tone must have struck a chord, because the nurse's face softened slightly. "Sam is very sick," she said in the kindest tone with which those words could be said. "You did right to bring him here. We're going to do everything we possibly can." She lowered her voice so she could barely be heard over the steady whir of the machines at the head of the hospital bed. "He's not going to be in any sort of trouble. Neither are you. This is a safe place."

Dean swallowed hard and nodded, looking down at his shoes. There were bloodstains on his jeans - fresh ones, from that night, punctuating the old ones that no amount of detergent could wash away. He must look every bit as delinquent as Sam. He nearly jumped as the nurse laid a hand on his shoulder.

"You should go get some coffee."

"I'm not leaving him." Dean edged closer to the bed. "If I'm not here when he wakes up -"

"Of course." The nurse closed the file and nodded as the curtain was whisked open again to admit yet another employee in scrubs, carrying a basin filled with plastic bags of blood. "I've already paged the specialist on call. She should be here shortly. She'll have questions for you - and Sam, if he's awake."

Dean couldn't tear his eyes away from the swift, deliberate moves with which the technician was assembling the apparatus to deliver the blood. "He needs all of that?"

The technician glanced down at the bags. "Each bag will raise his crit by about six percent," the technician said with a distracted air as he did something with a tube. So many tubes. Dean didn't know if he'd even be able to find Sam under them all. "And he's about fifteen percent lower than Tammy wants him to be." The technician dropped his voice to mutter something under his breath. It sounded like "veins are collapsed," but that couldn't be it - that sounded entirely too serious, and Sam was going to be just fine. He'd been through worse.

"He's about twenty percent lower than I'd like him to be," the nurse corrected, glancing at Dean as though to include him in the conversation that was quickly climbing over his head, "but I want to see how he reacts to the transfusion first. We may need plasma as well."

"Have some right here," the technician said, jerking his chin in the direction of the basin he'd brought with him. "I usually bring some."

"When will I be able to take him home?" Dean interrupted. "Tomorrow morning? The day after?" He refused to let his stomach drop at the pitying look the nurse was giving him. "Sammy doesn't like hospitals. The food doesn't agree with him."

"We need him stable first," the nurse said firmly. "You'll know as soon as we do."

"This our young man?" The makeshift cubicle of the curtain was getting crowded; Dean felt as though he was being forced further and further away. He planted himself by Sam's elbow and crossed his arms as the newcomer in the white coat took the file from the nurse. She did not open it; instead she looked to Dean. "You're his brother?" Dean nodded. "I'm Dr. Harper. I work in internal medicine here at the hospital. Do you have any questions about what is happening here?"

"Yeah." Dean glanced down at Sam. "I haven't gotten a straight answer since I walked in here. What's happening?"

"Medical jargon is like a different language," Dr. Harper replied, nodding. "Sam's blood isn't working right. We don't know why for certain, so right now, we're trying to replace the blood that isn't working with donated blood. Once we have him out of immediate danger, we can start figuring out what's causing the problem."

The tubes connected to Sam's arms had begun filling with dark red; it made Dean inexplicably queasy. Blood was blood. He saw it nearly every day. He averted his gaze and stared determinedly at the pattern on the curtain. "Is he going to be okay?"

This time the obvious hesitation of the nurse and Dr. Harper sent a cold stab of dread through him. "You brought him to us quickly, which increases his chances of avoiding brain damage," Dr. Harper said finally. "But his entire body went without oxygen for quite a while. That's very hard on organs like the liver and the brain. That's why he's unconscious right now. His body is trying to conserve what little it has left and reroute it to the most important life-sustaining functions."

"So what you're saying is that he's dying." The words felt strange on his tongue. He didn't know why. He and Sam were constantly on the brink of dying. They weren't exactly strangers to the experience. But death wasn't something that happened in a hospital bed. Not to them. Death was supposed to be a violent and painful affair, met head on with a weapon and a smart remark. Not like this. Not without a fighting chance.

"I'm not saying anything of the sort," Dr. Harper corrected him. "He's remarkably stable for someone in his condition, and once we've gotten the donor blood in him we'll know more." She glanced at one of the monitors at the head of the bed. "That being said, if there's anyone else who should know that he's here, now would be a good time to call them. Not," she added quickly, "that he's on any sort of timer - just that I expect we'll know things more definitively within a few hours, and if there is any other family, you may want to have them around."

"Right." Dying. That's what all the words were trying to hide. Dean nodded, and he could tell that Dr. Harper knew what was going through his mind by the way her eyes tightened slightly. He pulled his phone from his pocket. "I hope you don't mind if I make a few calls right here," he said, holding up the phone and waving it. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

Dr. Harper not only seemed not to mind, she went so far as to move to the other side of the bed to confer quietly with the nurse and the other technician. Dean took a deep breath and unlocked his phone.

_13 new messages_

Perplexed, Dean thumbed open his text messages - all from Kevin.

_He's in surgery now. call ASAP_

_At Allenmore General. Checking in. Told them his name is Cas and don't know last name._

_Are you okay?_

Dean gritted his teeth against the sour taste that was rising up his throat as he skimmed up to the previous messages.

_Sam isnt answering either_

_Where are you?_

_Ambulance is here now_

_Ambulance can't find the place. Should I just drive him?_

_CALL ASAP_

_Are you guys okay?_

_WHERE ARE YOU_

_I called 911 and ambulance is on its way_

_CALL ASAP_

_Cas is hurt bad. I thought he was with you? He didn't know where you were?_

The phone took a few seconds to connect before it began ringing; barely two rings had completed before Kevin picked up. "Dean. You're alive." The relief in his voice was almost palpable, even over the phone, and Dean shifted uneasily.

"Just barely. What's happening? Surgery?"

"Emergency surgery. They won't tell me what's going on, just that they need to stabilize him."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Dean said, glancing over at the huddle of scrubs on the other side of the bed. "Sam's not in tip-top shape either." He reached up to run his hand over his eyes. "I can't leave him, Kev. Not right now."

Dean could hear Kevin swallowing. "He was asking for you. He seemed pretty disoriented, but that's all he could say. He said he needed you."

"He said what?" Dean covered his other ear with one hand to muffle the low drone of the machines.

"Just that. 'I need Dean.' And then he passed out. What's wrong with Sam?"

Something sour was stirring in the pit of Dean's stomach. "Something - blood stuff. He may or may not be braindead. They won't give me a solid answer." He ignored the stern glance the nurse failed to stifle. "It's bad. I can't leave. Not even for Cas."

"Right." Dean could hear Kevin taking a deep breath. "So what should I tell them? I've got a book's worth of paperwork they gave me and I don't know how to fill in any of it. Birthdate? Allergies? Do angels even have allergies?"

"They shouldn't even need surgery, Kevin." Dean closed his eyes. "Dammit. Just - hold down the fort, okay? Don't sign anything. I'll - figure out something."

"I can come stay with Sam," Kevin offered in a small voice. "Switch places. You can be here."

"No, that's - thanks. But no. He's my brother. I can't leave."

"I thought Cas was - was family too."

The sick twist in Dean's gut tightened. "Cas is - complicated. In ways that I don't even want to try and explain." The silence on the end of the line weighed heavily on Dean's chest, and he sighed. "Look, I said I'll figure something out. Hang in there."

"I'm not the one in surgery." There were two beeps and then the silence that indicated Kevin had ended the call. Dean tossed the phone onto the bed and ran both hands over his face wearily.

He shouldn't have closed his eyes; the habit of being able to fall asleep anywhere meant that he didn't know how much time passed in his stupor of a half-doze before a gentle hand on his arm startled him awake. "Mr. Page," an entirely different nurse was saying, "Your brother is stable enough for us to move him upstairs now. Could I get you to sign the admit papers?"

"Hm?" Dean blinked as a clipboard was handed to him. "Yeah. Whatever." Pen hovering above the papers, he looked over at Sam; his brother looked just as sallow and sunken as before. "He doesn't look much better."

"He's not," a slightly familiar voice said as Dr. Harper drew aside the curtain, "which is why we're keeping him. But we've upgraded his room. He even gets limo service." She indicated the gurney that two other hospital workers were pulling up behind her.

"Is he okay?" The question was useless, Dean knew, and was surprised when Dr. Harper nodded.

"He responded very well to the transfusions. What's more interesting is that his tox screen came back negative. Twice." She didn't phrase it as a question, but it was a question nonetheless. Dean didn't know how to even begin answering it, so he just shrugged, watching as the gurney was wheeled into place next to Sam's bed. "At any rate, it means that we likely don't have to worry about liver failure, since his liver isn't having to deal with any toxic chemicals. That's good." She aimed a more pointed look at Dean. "Having ruled out illicit substances, I'm still worried about his brain function. Drugs or not, he still spent a lot of time without enough oxygen. Those papers aren't going to sign themselves, you know."

"I can't take him home, can I?" Dean asked, pen still hovering over the papers. "Even if I didn't sign this?"

Dr. Harper hid her alarm well. Dean could appreciate a good poker face. "I'm going to advise against that in the strongest way possible, Dean."

"But I could. Technically. I could take him home."

"Please don't." He could see genuine concern begin to rise in her eyes. "He needs the kind of care he can only get in a hospital. Transfusions. Imaging. If this is a bone marrow infection he'll need broad-spectrum antibiotics." She walked around the bed and bent down so their eyes were level. "I know it's difficult to see a loved one like this. And I can see that you two are used to taking care of yourselves. But he needs to be here. Taking him home is the worst possible thing for him."

There was an entire closet full of remedies in the bunker, cataloged and ready for nearly every ailment that could come up. Barring that, there was any number of rituals filed away in the library. One of them would have to work.

The bunker was also five hours away, and the expression on Dr. Harper's face was a fairly decent indication that she didn't think Sam would last long outside these walls.

Dean sighed and let his gaze fall to the papers. "Just sign here, then?"

* * *

_He still in surgery?_

_Yeah. Sam?_

_No change. Let you know._

_Same._

* * *

"You should get some sleep."

Dean tore his gaze away from the monitor, where he'd been listlessly watching the steady peaks and valleys of Sam's heartbeat. "Hmm?"

Not looking up as she scribbled in Sam's chart, the nurse continued. "You've obviously had a rough night of it. You should get some sleep."

"I don't think so." Dean crossed his arms and tried his best to look wide-awake. It was marred, he knew, by how bloodshot his eyes must be, and by the dark circles under his eyes that his usual four hours hadn't been able to dispel for years.

"It's two in the morning, Mr. Page. You can't stay awake all night."

"Just try him."

Dean's head whipped around so quickly that his neck tweaked in painful complaint. "Sam?"

Sam opened his eyes, just once, very briefly, then sighed into his oxygen mask. "I feel like I've been hit by a truck."

"Not exactly." Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands folded beneath his chin. "You okay there, Sammy?"

"I feel like I've been hit by a truck," Sam repeated, opening one eye to look at Dean. "And this is a hospital." It sounded almost accusatory.

"There are some...problems," Dean said, before shooting a glance at the nurse. "Could I get a moment?"

The nurse, for her part, looked absolutely astounded. "I - yes. I'll page Dr. Harper."

It wasn't long before she had left the room, and Dean lowered his voice. "Your blood is doing some weird shit. If I tried to take you home, I might have ended up with one very dead brother, and I don't have so many brothers that I was willing to take the chance. You're here. End of story. I know you think they can't help, but maybe they can."

"What's wrong with me isn't in some medical journal," Sam protested, but it didn't have any real heat behind it. He sighed again and shrugged. "Whatever. I'm here now." He opened his eyes again, although it looked as though it took all his effort to do so. "Crowley still in the car?"

"He should be. Those handcuffs won't let him go anywhere."

"Are you sure about that?"

Dean nodded. "Even if he wasn't still technically a demon, he's attached to the frame of the car. He's not checking out anytime soon."

"And you don't think security is going to get a little suspicious about someone handcuffed inside a car in the parking garage?"

"What, should I bring him in here? Yeah, that sounds like a great way to avoid questions," Dean retorted. "It's not as though we have anywhere else to stash him."

Sam made a face that Dean recognized well. It was the expression that preceded anything that Dean was likely to argue with. "We could always...you know...let him go."

"Let him go," Dean repeated. "King of Hell, fresh out of rehab, and you want to just let him go."

"And what else can we do with him?" Sam demanded, reaching up to tear the oxygen mask from his face. "Cured or not, he's still a demon - a demon with a buttload of power - and if we show him some goodwill maybe we can actually convince him to be on our side instead of hating us for what we did to him."

"On our side?" Dean could not seem to stop repeating the nonsense coming out of Sam's mouth.

"Yes, Dean," Sam said wearily, "On our side. Abaddon is still out there, and she knows what we were doing to Crowley - she could already be rallying demons to stage a coup, or something. Enemy of my enemy, right?"

"Name one time that philosophy has ever gone well for us." Dean reached up with both hands to rub at his face. "We need to do something with him."

The phone on the table by Dean's elbow buzzed, nearly falling off the table before Dean reached out to snatch it.

"Kevin?"

"Cas crashed. They told me to get in contact with his family."

Dean licked his lips, eyes flicking up to Sam. "But he's okay. Right?"

"You know as much as I do now." Kevin's voice was flat with fatigue.

"Dean, what's going on?" Sam asked. Dean held his hand up, but the words tumbling around his mind refused to be pinned down.

"Is that Sam?" Kevin demanded. "Is he awake?"

"Yeah," Dean replied absently. "Just woke up a few minutes ago. Here." At Sam's gesture, he handed over the phone.

"Kevin? Yeah I'm - I'm fine. Tired, mostly. Achy. You - what? He's what?" Sam looked to Dean in alarm. "No, he didn't tell me. Is he okay?"

"Am I interrupting?"

Dean and Sam both looked to the sliding door of the room where Dr. Harper stood, flanked by the nurse. Dean pointedly took the phone from Sam. "We gotta go, Kev. Doc's here. I promise, I will - I'll work something out. I swear." He hung up before Kevin could protest, guilt twisting sharply in his chest.

Dr. Harper was already gazing intently at the monitors around Sam's bed; it wasn't until Dean pocketed his phone that she spoke again. "Good morning, Sam. I'm very glad to see you awake. I'm Dr. Harper." She looked away from one of the monitors with a small smile. "You don't have to say that it's good to meet me."

"Thanks." Sam shifted, trying to sit up. "So what's the verdict?"

Dr. Harper reached out to touch some of the buttons on the bed, and the head began to rise up. Sam nodded once at her gratefully. "It's hard to tell at this point. You're awake and talking, which is honestly more than I'd hoped." She pointed at one of the numbers on the monitor. "Especially considering how low your oxygen levels are. That hasn't changed. I want to do some more blood labs, see if we can't pin down what's causing it."

"Am I going to be alive tomorrow?" Sam asked bluntly.

Dr. Harper's poker face made another appearance. "You won't be out of here by then, I can tell you that, but unless a meteor hits the hospital I should say you'll be alive for at least the next several days - assuming your blood keeps doing its job."

"Good." Sam crossed his arms and looked flatly at Dean. "Dean has somewhere to be."

"Yeah. Right here." Dean leaned back, face carefully composed. "I'm not leaving this room until you do."

Sam glanced at Dr. Harper before taking a sharp breath. "Are you still mad at him?"

Blinking, Dean set his jaw. "At who?"

"Cas. It's hard to keep track."

"Maybe. Probably." Dean shook his head. "You know what he's done."

"Mad enough to not be there when he wakes up?" Sam pressed. "From surgery he shouldn't need?"

"I told you," Dean said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, ignoring how thoroughly the nurse and Dr. Harper were pretending to not hear their conversation. "Nothing comes before you. Not even Cas."

"Dean, I..." Sam closed his eyes and grimaced. "I didn't mean what I said. Not about Cas. I don't - Cas is family. And someone should be there for him."

"Kevin's there."

"I mean one of us." Sam lifted the hand that trailed an IV tube. "And I'm not exactly portable."

In the corner of the room, Dr. Harper coughed. "Not that it's any of my business," she said to no one in particular, "but I'm going to be taking Sam to imaging as soon as I can get it scheduled. He'll be busy for a few hours, and it's going to be mighty boring in this room."

"Cas is my friend, too," Sam said quietly. "If I can't go, I wish you would." His eyes suddenly went very wide and he took a breath. "Maybe Crowley can help with the...transportation," he said, very slowly, with a significant look at Dean.

Dean stared blankly for a moment. "Son of a bitch," he said finally.

* * *

"Ah," Crowley said as Dean slid into the front seat of the Impala, closing the door behind him. "He returns."

Dean twisted to face the demon in the backseat of the car. "You all right?" he asked grudgingly.

"I'm spectacular. Although, could you possibly chain me to the other door next time you abandon me for several hours? My shoulder's cramping." Crowley shrugged. "Just a thought."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I meant, are you hungry or anything? I mean..."

"Are you this awkward with everyone the morning after? Because it's rather endearing."

It took every ounce of self-control Dean possessed not to reach back and smack Crowley upside the head. "Crowley, I'm running on empty on the brink of about a dozen situations I'd rather have nothing to do with, you being one of them. Don't test me."

Crowley stared back insolently for a moment before he broke the gaze, looking down first at his manacled hands and then at the empty seat next to Dean. "How's Sam?"

"Not dead," Dean replied shortly, taken aback at the demon's inquiry. Crowley nodded and settled into the back seat, as far as the handcuffs would allow him, eyes not leaving Dean.

"Is there a reason for this visit? Or did you just remember you didn't crack the window?"

Continuing to debate with himself over it wasn't going to do any good. Dean sighed. "You can zap yourself pretty much anywhere you want to. Can you still do it?"

"Hard to tell. I'm a bit tied up at the moment." Crowley did not glance significantly at the manacles, but his raised eyebrows made it perfectly clear that he could have, if such a gesture would not have been inelegant.

"Assuming you can. Can you take a passenger?"

Crowley leaned forward. "Oh, now that's interesting. Where could you possibly need to go so badly that you'd stoop to using me as a taxi service?"

Dean snapped his jaw shut.

"No, really," Crowley said after a few moments of stubborn silence, "I'll need to know if I'm going to take you there. Unless you'd like it to be a surprise."

"So you can."

Crowley responded with a shrug. "I'm still technically the contractual owner of every soul in Hell. That's not easily broken, and my power derives from that. We can get wibbly about how that makes me feel later. Of course I still can. The question is, how do I benefit from it?"

The words felt slimy even before Dean said them. "You don't like Abaddon."

"I would wish us better strangers, yes."

"We don't like Abaddon either."

Long moments passed as they stared at one another, unblinking. Finally Crowley began nodding slowly, his eyes calculating. "We can work out the fiddly details later," he said in a low voice. "Because there will be oh, so many fiddly details." He raised his bound wrists. "How about it? First one is contingent on you unlocking these."

Dean swallowed as he drew a heavily sigiled key from his jacket pocket. "You don't get to bounce as soon as I let you go," he said warningly.

"Of course not."

"And you've got to stick around to bring me back here. No wandering off on your own."

"How tedious. Agreed," Crowley added quickly as Dean's eyes narrowed.

"You lay a finger on anyone - you even talk to anyone - and so help me you will wish we left you in that church for Abbadon to find."

It was an empty threat, and they both knew it. Dean expected Crowley to laugh.

"Agreed."

Dean tried his best to hide his surprise. "And you have to take me where I actually want to go. No scenic detours." At Crowley's nod, he reached back and shoved the key into the lock on the manacles.

A small sound of relief escaped from Crowley as he massaged first one wrist, then the other, rolling his shoulders as he did so. "Like finally taking a piss after a long night of it."

"Classy," Dean retorted, irritated that he found it slightly amusing.

"That's me. All class." Crowley flexed his neck a few times before looked squarely at Dean. "Now. Where are we off to?"

"Allenmore General Hospital. Kansas."

Nodding, Crowley reached forward. "You're not going to like this much," he warned just before grasping Dean firmly by the ear and pulling him sideways into crushing darkness.


	3. No Rest for the Wicked

The waiting room was tastefully decorated with gentle blues and creams, no doubt to be as soothing as possible. There was even a fish tank directly to Kevin's left. The constant movement out of the corner of his eye kept startling him, but if he stood up to move he'd start pacing again.

His phone buzzed and he fished it from his shirt pocket, stifling a groan as the motion reminded him of how stiff his back was growing from these waiting room chairs. "Hey, Dean."

"Hey. So where are you?"

"Allenmore General," Kevin replied, rubbing his eyes. "Are you coming?"

"Already here."

Kevin nearly dropped the phone. "How? You said you were four hours away!"

There was definite hesitation. "Don't worry about how. Where are you? Any word on Cas?"

A cursory glance around the waiting room didn't particularly help with the location effort. "The surgery clinic waiting room. I think it's in the blue wing?"

"Got it. Found a map. Cas?"

Kevin's chest tightened. "No updates. Which I guess is good. I assume they're taking so long because they've got the time to take."

"That's one way of looking at it. I'll be there in a few."

Kevin swiped his phone off and leaned back in the chair in relief, reaching up to rub his eyes again. The heavy weariness of worry pulled at his shoulders and pounded inside his head, making the single sleepless night somehow seem a week long. Everything felt distant, as though he were watching it unfold on television, a medical drama of some sort that he couldn't turn off. Even Dean finally rounding the corner, looking every bit as exhausted as Kevin felt, seemed unreal.

"How you holding up?" Dean asked, thumping heavily into the chair across from Kevin.

Kevin shrugged. "They mostly leave me alone. I tried to sleep a little." He nodded towards the pile of clipboards on the table next to him. "They're getting really anxious about getting those filled out."

"I bet." Grimacing, Dean reached over for one of the clipboards, but paused as a shadow fell over them. Kevin looked up and suppressed a wince.

"Dean, this is Jane. She's the nurse who has been...directing me." Kevin glanced significantly at the papers, and Dean nodded once in comprehension.

"I'm Dean." Dean reached up with one hand. "I'm a friend of Cas's. I got here as soon as I could."

"A friend." The tired smile on Jane's face slipped the tiniest amount as she shook Dean's hand. "A good friend?"

Dean's expression flattened. "You could say that."

Unperturbed, Jane picked up one of the clipboards in the pile. "We've been having trouble tracking down someone who can make medical decisions on Cas's behalf. Once he's out of surgery, we need to contact someone regarding his continued care." She handed the clipboard to Dean.

"What, like family?" Dean clarified.

Jane nodded. "Spouse, siblings - grown children, if he has them."

Dean shook his head as he scanned the form on the clipboard he held. "Well, he doesn't have any of those." He thrust the clipboard back at her. "We're all he's got."

Kevin recognized the thin line that appeared between Jane's eyebrows. He'd gotten to know that line very well in the past few hours: it meant she was getting annoyed at the lack of information she was getting. "Is Cas okay?" he interrupted. "Dean's here now, so can you tell me what's going on?"

"I'd like to know that too," Dean said, crossing his arms.

For the first time, Jane let her flinty exterior slip; rather than the low level of exasperation Kevin had come to expect, frustration flashed across her face for the barest of moments. "I'm sorry. It's like I've been telling Kevin - hospital privacy policy - I can't say anything specific to anyone who isn't family -"

"They're partners," Kevin blurted, glancing at Dean.

"Partners?" Jane asked in mild surprise, looking over at Dean.

"Partners?" Dean asked in a similar tone, his eyebrows raised as he turned his head completely to look at Kevin.

The look of incredulity on Dean's face made Kevin swallow. "I - they've been tiptoeing around it for ages. They think I don't know. But...they're not just friends."

Dean continued to stare at Kevin in disbelief, but Kevin could see the softening at the corners of Dean's eyes, the way his entire expression slid slowly into one of suppressed worry just before he tore his eyes away to study the fish. Jane apparently saw it too, because she coughed softly.

"I have some other forms to get," she said by way of excusing herself.

She had been gone for nearly a full minute before Dean looked back at Kevin. "Partners?" he asked evenly.

The word hit Kevin like an actual physical impact. "I - it's getting you in, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Dean continued in the same dangerous low growl, "until Cas wakes up and I have to do some fast talking. You may have noticed that Cas isn't the best liar." He set his jaw and shook his head. "You pull shit like that again, and I will eat every one of your Magic cards."

Kevin swallowed, a hot, sour twist in his stomach unfurling. "In my defense," he said slowly, not tearing his eyes away from Dean's, "I didn't know it was a lie."

It was amazing how Dean's face could be so expressive one moment, and then carved of stone the next. "We're done with this discussion."

His tone was so final and cold that Kevin responded without thinking. "Yes, sir."

"Don't 'yes, sir' me. Just -" Dean huffed out a frustrated sigh and sat back in his chair.

The feeble conversation died. Mortification began to slowly creep its way into the cocktail of horrible emotions stewing in Kevin's middle, and he stood, the need to move unbearable.

He felt Dean's eyes on his back as he left the waiting area, and he tried his best to ignore how much they felt like an accusation.

* * *

Sam couldn't remember a time when he'd been more bone-achingly exhausted.

That was even counting that hazy, only half-remembered haze in which he'd not slept for nearly two weeks, despite pharmaceutical intervention. That had been more of a constant, intense struggle; it had kept him in a constant state of lightheadedness, almost high on the dizzying feeling of disconnection. This, however - the fatigue was such that he didn't think he could summon the energy to sit up for more than a few minutes, or even summon the energy to care. The idea of actually moving himself from the wheelchair back into his hospital bed was almost laughable.

"Can I just sit here a few minutes?" he asked, and even that took an obscene amount of effort.

The nurse - Olivia, this one's name was Olivia - nodded. "Of course. I can help you, if you'd like, once you're up to it."

"Thanks." Sam closed his eyes for a moment. He wasn't sleepy, exactly; he did not begin to drop off like he normally would have after a night like the one before. Really, this felt a lot like he'd been feeling for weeks now, just intensified past the point of functionality.

He'd begun to brace himself against the insurmountable task of opening his eyes again when he heard someone enter the room. "I've got two more units of packed cells coming up," he could hear Dr. Harper saying, "and he's scheduled for a bone marrow aspiration and biopsy at ten." Then, clearly directed at him, "You look like you could use a nap."

"For about a week," he replied feebly, cracking open his eyes. "Did you drug me or something?"

Dr. Harper shook her head. "You're dangerously anemic. You don't have enough living red cells to carry the oxygen required to keep you going. I'm getting you another transfusion - it should be here soon - and that should make you feel more up to the tests I've ordered for you later."

"More tests." He tried not to sound so plaintive, but it seemed he couldn't manage any other tone.

"We have to know what's wrong before we can fix it," Dr. Harper replied, her tone sympathetic. "The anemia is a symptom, not a diagnosis. Something's killing your red blood cells. I've got the lab working on the samples we just took, and the imaging should rule out a few things involving your kidneys and spleen."

Sam wasn't really listening. "Right," he said vaguely when Dr. Harper paused, because it felt like it was his turn to say something.

"Based on the results from the samples we took when you came in last night, however..." He could hear her voice moving, and he cracked his eyes open again to see that she'd taken a seat in the chair next to the bed. "It could be a result of some medication you've taken, or it could be a genetic condition that is finally rearing its head. Either way, I think it's likely that your bone marrow - the tissue in your bones that make red blood cells - isn't working like it should." She paused, as though waiting for Sam to respond; Sam nodded dutifully. "One of the tests later is going to take a biopsy of some of the bone marrow in your hip. It'll take a cone-shaped piece of that tissue that the pathology lab can examine. They'll also take some of the fluid in that space."

"Biopsy." The word wandered through Sam's brain until it connected with a concept that nearly shocked him awake. "They do that to test for cancer."

"Among other things." Dr. Harper looked suddenly very tired. "I don't want to frighten you, Sam. This episode that you've had is strangely acute for it to be cancer. But I need to rule it out."

"Right." This was supposed to be upsetting. Sam knew that. But he was having a difficult time feeling anything except detachment. "Don't tell Dean."

Dr. Harper was silent for a moment. "All right." She twisted in her chair to address Olivia. "Please make a note of that in his chart, and make sure the other floor nurses know."

"I just - he worries too much. About things he can't change. All the time." He felt a sudden need to explain himself. "It's not that I don't want him to know. But he...needs to believe I'm okay. And he won't, if you tell him."

"We understand, Sam. It's...not an uncommon request." A shrill beeping sounded; Dr. Harper's pager, apparently, because she pulled it from the pocket of her coat. "Olivia, can you help Sam into bed, please? He can get at least an hour or two of rest before we start poking at him again."

The bed was that exact level of comfort that allowed for sleeping, but not much else. Once Sam was safely ensconced in the utilitarian sheets, his various tubes and wires secured so he wouldn't roll over them, he let his mind wander into a reverie that tipped him into an uneasy, restless doze, punctuated with beeps and tiny hot stabs in his arm and the ever-present pressure of uselessness on his soul.

* * *

Dean stared at the double doors. _AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY - PROPER SCRUB ATTIRE REQUIRED BEYOND THIS POINT._ He wondered detachedly what would happen if he wandered into one of the locker rooms and borrowed some scrubs. How far would he be able to get? Not far, he suspected; the badges everyone wore seemed to be required to open most of the doors. He probably wouldn't even be able to make it into a locker room.

The paperwork, at least, had been easy enough. A quick call to Charlie had secured him a social security number and a promise that by the time the hospital tried to pull up the information, it would point to one James Castiel Novak, a 36-year-old single man so nondescript it would make people cry of boredom. "And in a few hours, he'll have a bank account and health insurance, too," she'd assured him. He'd decided not to ask how.

His pen had lingered over one space on the forms for far too long, however. _Relation to patient._ He could still see it when he blinked, as though it had burned to his corneas.

He'd decided that "partner" could be taken more ways than the obvious way. Castiel _was_ his partner. His hunting partner. They'd been on cases, after all. But it had still felt strange writing the word, and not just because it was intentionally misleading; even though he was trying hard not to think about it, his mind insisted on examining it.

Not long after he'd handed back the numerous clipboards, a very exhausted-looking man in green scrubs had emerged from those double-doors and scanned the waiting room. It hadn't taken him long; Kevin still hadn't returned, for which Dean was guiltily grateful, and though the waiting room was starting to fill up with patients and their families, clearly the surgeon knew who he was looking for.

"We had to remove his spleen," the surgeon had said, as though Dean knew what a spleen did - he had always half-suspected it wasn't even a real organ. "It was ruptured and he was bleeding internally. Because it's so close to the pancreas, and when we're rushing to ligate vessels like we were - the pancreas are very friable tissue, and when they're punctured -"

Dean had mostly stopped trying to follow what may as well have been Greek at that point, zoning back into the surgeon's litany when he mentioned they'd had to give more than eight units of blood, and only then to idly muse that Cas and Sam could start a competition.

"The anesthesiologist is reversing the meds now," the surgeon had finished, "and we'll be able to bring you back to see him shortly."

"Why can't I go now?" Dean had asked bluntly.

"We haven't transported him to recovery yet," the surgeon had responded. "He's still in the room. A tech will come get you as soon as he's transported. I promise." He'd offered a tired but reassuring smile. "He's tough, your friend. And healthy. A fighter. It shouldn't be too long."

That had been half an hour ago. Dean had been staring at the double doors ever since.

"Any word?"

Dean looked up. Kevin thrust a cup of vending machine coffee at him; it had the vague sense of a peace offering about it, and Dean considered it before reaching out to take it.

"He's out." He took a sip of the coffee and immediately regretted it; bitter, too hot, and too much creamer. "They were supposed to come get me when I could come see him."

Kevin lowered himself into the chair next to Dean. "Look, I'm sorry I -"

"Forget about it," Dean cut him off. "It was a mistake. Now you know better." He swallowed, weariness making his thoughts thick and inelegant. "Truth is, I -"

"Are you Dean?"

Dean's head snapped around and he was up out of his chair before he even finished responding. "Yes. He awake?"

The nurse nodded. "And asking for you. Would you like to come with me?"

"Absolutely."

She led him down a hallway, going too slowly for Dean's liking. "He's very disoriented, which is completely normal after spending so long under general anesthesia, and he's on some painkillers that will also make him groggy, so don't be alarmed if he acts a little strange," she said as she held open one of the doors for him.

"Right." Dean stepped through and his eyes darted about the room, landing upon the only occupied bed after only a moment. Suddenly anxious, he stepped slowly to the bedside and stood mutely, not sure what to do next.

Aside from the oxygen tubes trailing from his nose and the IV inserted in his arm, Castiel did not look as though he'd just had major surgery. His dark hair was tousled against the pillow as though he'd spent a night tossing and turning, and he did look paler than usual, but otherwise Dean had seen him look far worse. It was that thought that gave him the courage to reach out and put light pressure on Castiel's shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly, and Castiel opened his eyes - he didn't seem to be able to focus them together at the same time, and they wandered slightly before landing on Dean's face.

"You're Dean," he mumbled, the lines around his eyes smiling even if his mouth didn't.

"Last time I checked," Dean replied slowly, Castiel's odd phrasing raising a tiny alarm bell of suspicion in the back of his mind. "What happened? You scared Kevin half to death.."

The smile lines disappeared. "Kevin?"

Dean swallowed. "Yeah. Little nerdy dude with the tablet?" The alarm bell multiplied at the blank incomprehension on Castiel's face. "And Sam was worried too."

The alarm bells upgraded to a siren and a terrible cold rush at the pit of his stomach as Castiel shook his head very slightly.

Bracing himself, Dean plastered a sickly smile on his face. "How about Castiel? Remember him?"

He didn't need Castiel to shake his head again to confirm it. He realized that the hand on Castiel's shoulder had started gripping it very tightly and he forced himself to let go, shoving it into his jacket pocket.

"Listen, I - I gotta go find your doctor," Dean said, forcing as much false cheer into his voice as he could muster. "I'll be right back."

* * *

"It's normal for him to be disoriented right now," the anesthesiologist told Dean calmly, but Dean held up a hand.

"He doesn't recognize his own_ name_. I'm not a doctor, but that goes way beyond disoriented in my book."

"Dean, I need you to calm down," the anesthesiologist said, reaching out to put a hand on both of Dean's shoulders. Dean took a step back and her hands dropped. "He spent nearly six hours under anesthesia, and he was very sensitive to some of those drugs. That's why it took so long to wake him back up. He may wake up tomorrow morning and not remember having gone to surgery at all. You said he recognized you, right?"

"Kind of." Dean was even doubting that now. He shook his head to clear it from the cobwebs of fatigue that were beginning in the corners. "You're seriously not worried at all? That he doesn't even know his name?"

"He responded to Cas when we were bringing him out," she replied in a soothing tone. "And he's been asking for you since we extubated him. I think, once he's given time to actually rest and metabolize what remains of the drugs, he'll become more coherent and less worrisome." She looked carefully at Dean. "And I think you could use a little rest, too. Cas is likely going to sleep for the next several hours with the pain medication we've given him. I suggest you do the same."

"Why does everyone keep telling me to go sleep?" Dean demanded of no one in particular, but the anesthesiologist replied anyway.

"Because you look like you haven't for several nights, and having a loved one in the hospital is extremely stressful and draining." She put a hand on Dean's shoulder again, and this time he didn't knock it away. "We're taking care of Cas. You take care of yourself."

She sounded so sincere that Dean felt a little guilty for simply turning on his heel and walking away.

Castiel didn't wake up again when Dean stopped by his bed, even when Dean tapped on his shoulder. There were no disconcerting sounds coming from the various monitors around him, and no one seemed concerned, so he simply squeezed Castiel's shoulder in farewell before making his way back to the waiting room.

"So?" Kevin asked, rising to his feet.

"He's pretty fucked up," Dean replied in a low voice, passing a hand over his face to rub at his eyes. "Don't know what I expected - it's not exactly new for him to forget everything. He's done it before."

Kevin looked perplexed. "But he remembered you. And the bunker."

Dean shook his head in frustration. "I know." He sighed heavily. "He's drugged to the gills right now and as much as I want to stay..."

Kevin gave Dean a resigned look. "Sam."

Dean nodded. "Can you stay?"

Shrugging, Kevin looked around. "I don't have much else to do."

"Tell me as soon as Cas wakes up and can actually string two words together. I'm going to stop by the bunker and change and get Sam some new clothes too - they had to cut his off." A thought struck Dean, and he paused. "Should pick up some clothes for Cas. They probably had to cut his off, too." A tiny, inexplicable pain twinged through him at the thought, his overtired mind drawing a ridiculous parallel between Castiel's clothes and his identity.

"They did ask if I could bring him some things from home," Kevin said slowly. "Do you think I could ride to the bunker with you, and you can drop me back off here?"

Dean's previous line of thought screeched to a halt. "Um. No."

He cursed the bluntness of his response as Kevin's brow wrinkled. "Why not?"

"You won't like my ride." Closing his eyes, Dean sighed. Kevin would inevitably find out anyway - he'd known the plan to begin with, and he had to have guessed at its outcome by now. "It's Crowley."

To his credit, Kevin's expression changed very little, except for the sudden flare of hate and distaste in his eyes. He simply sat back down. "I'll wait here. Can you bring me my backpack?" he asked in a studiously neutral tone.

Dean nodded. "Anything else?"

"Yeah." Kevin pulled his phone from his pocket and slumped back in the chair, eyes glued to the screen. "Tell Crowley he can go fuck himself."

"I'll pass it on." When Dean got no further response, he turned and made his way through the maze of hallways, trying to find the entrance by which he'd arrived.


	4. Leaving

"Can I see him?"

Dean looked up from the manacles he had just locked, not bothering to keep the incredulity from his face. "Are you insane?"

Crowley shrugged. "For certain values." He shifted in the backseat, as though attempting to find a position in which one shoulder was not wrenched to the side to accommodate the manacles. "But seeing how he's in there mostly on my account, I reckon it's only polite to pay my respects."

"He didn't do this for you," Dean retorted. "He did this - we did this - to stop you. To end you. It wasn't even a day ago that you were wasting our friends in front of us. You think we did this as a favor to you?"

"You call this a favor?" Crowley gestured at himself as best as he could manage, voice rising. "Do you have any idea what it's like inside my head right now, you _ignorant twat_?"

Setting his jaw, Dean took a slow, steadying breath as he leveled a glare at Crowley. "I got yanked out of Hell in the middle of what I was doing, too. Yeah. I think I know exactly what it's like inside your head right now. I couldn't wish it on a better person."

He didn't wait to hear Crowley's response; pocketing the key, Dean pulled himself out of the car and slammed the door.

Apparently the expression on his face was formidable; in the endless twisting corridors of the hospital, staff and patients alike took a single look at him and averted their eyes, going so far as to move to the other side of the hallway where it permitted. That suited Dean right down to the toes of his boots.

Sam looked up as Dean pushed open the door to his room, brow furrowing immediately as he registered Dean's obvious displeasure. "What's up?" he asked.

Dean studied his brother for a moment before answering. "Crowley's being a dick. Don't worry about it. You look better."

"I feel better," Sam admitted, looking down at himself. "Not good, by any stretch of the imagination, but...better."

"I'll take it." Dean flopped into a chair and rubbed at his temples. "Cas is out of surgery. And...not better."

The already weary look on Sam's face wilted more. "How?"

"The docs say it's the anesthesia drugs, but - I mean, Anna lost her memory when she Fell, too." Dean closed his eyes forcefully, trying to blink away the sandy fatigue.

"Amnesia," Sam said slowly. "Great. So he doesn't remember anything?"

"He remembered me. Kinda." Dean shook his head. "He was still pretty loopy when I left. Kevin's with him. He'll let me know when Cas wakes up."

Sam sighed, leaning back into his pillows. "You shouldn't be here," he said, his tone heavy.

"Of course I should -"

"No. We know I'm going to be all right, as soon as they decide they can't figure out anything wrong with me. Cas, though -"

"Is also going to be okay. And apparently doesn't remember being an angel, so it's not like he's going to have a hard time adjusting," Dean snapped.

Sam looked taken aback. "Dean, are you okay?" He blinked, as though something had just occurred to him. "Have you even slept?"

"I'm fine," Dean said evasively.

"That's not an answer."

"No, it isn't." Dean shifted his gaze to the monitors above Sam's bed. "So what about you? They figure out what isn't wrong with you yet?"

"It's not sickle cell," Sam said wryly. "And it's not my spleen."

"What is it with you guys and spleens?" Dean muttered.

"What?"

"Never mind. Go on."

"So far they've pretty much only figured out that blood transfusions make me feel better," Sam said, shrugging. "That narrows it down some, but apparently the test results take time - not like your hospital soap opera."

"It's not _my_ -" Dean shook his head. "So we know about as much as we did when you first got here. Great."

"Which is why you should at least go get some sleep," Sam said firmly.

"I can sleep right here." Dean crossed his arms stubbornly and slumped back in the chair.

Looking as though he was about to argue, but then thinking better of it, Sam rolled his eyes before settling back into his pillow. "Fine. I'm sleeping then, too."

"Don't get too comfortable," a cheerful female voice said from the doorway.

Dean opened one eye to identify Dr. Harper before sitting forward, every muscle in his body protesting the postponed nap.

"Oh, I didn't realize you were back already," Dr. Harper said, her smile slipping for a moment.

"Yup," Dean grunted, rearranging himself into a more attentive position in his chair.

Dr. Harper looked to Sam, who dropped his eyes uncomfortably. "Actually, Dean, I was hoping to have a word alone with your brother."

It took Dean several moments to fully process this. "This sounds like something I should hear," he said in a low voice, trying to catch Sam's eye. Sam did not look up.

"It will be," Dr. Harper responded in a conciliatory tone. "But it's something Sam needs to decide how best to share."

Words failed to present themselves for duty. Sam still wasn't meeting Dean's eyes. "Okay," Dean said slowly, standing up. He looked quizzically at Dr. Harper, whose face remained impassive. "Okay," he repeated uselessly. "I'll just - I'll get a snack."

He left the room before either of them could respond.

His phone buzzed against his hip before he'd taken more than two steps from the door. Pulling it from his pocket, he was about to unlock it when his ears picked up Sam's voice.

"Well, that felt shitty."

"We can call him back in, if you'd like," sounded Dr. Harper's voice. "Whatever is most comfortable for you."

"No, I -" A pause. "What's the news?"

He should leave. Dean shoved his phone in his pocket and almost did, until Dr. Harper began speaking again.

"It's far too early for results from the biopsy, but the aspiration looks very promising. Like I thought, it doesn't look like it's cancer."

"I'm sensing a 'but.'"

"Sam, your bone marrow is - I don't even know what to call it. Dying. Dead. It's as though it's been burned and it's necrosing from the inside out. Whatever killed off your blood cells is killing off your bone marrow, too." There was another pause, during which Dean put out a hand to steady himself against the wall. "As far as we can tell from your bloodwork, it's not autoimmune - your body isn't attacking itself - and -"

Sam said something too soft for Dean to hear. "No," Dr. Harper said in a tone nearly as quiet. "You can't live without bone marrow. And yours is damaged enough that the only solution anyone can come up with is a transplant."

"A transplant." Sam's voice sounded thin, stretched.

"They come from living donors," Dr. Harper said quickly, "so the wait isn't long at all once a donor is found. Here's where it get a little complicated. I know you didn't want Dean involved in your test results, and we can continue to respect that...but siblings are usually the first people we test for tissue compatibility."

There was another pause. "Dean, I know you're out there listening," Sam said at least.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. He stuck his head into the room. "What would you have done if I hadn't been?"

"Felt stupid," Sam replied with an attempt at levity, but he just sounded too tired.

Dr. Harper looked quietly amused, if somewhat exasperated. "I would welcome you to the conversation, Dean, but it would appear you're already acquainted with the circumstances."

"I'll do it," Dean said promptly, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. "I don't care what it is. I'll do it."

"There is a certain amount of discomfort -"

"I'd die for him," Dean interrupted in a low voice. "I can deal with discomfort."

Dr. Harper looked slightly taken aback at the quiet intensity of Dean's response as she nodded. "I'll tell the lab to come up and get their tissue sample," she said after a few moments.

"They can have it." Dean looked pointedly at Sam. "If you're okay with me knowing about it, that is." It was petty and he knew it, regretting the words nearly as soon as they left his mouth.

To his credit, Sam only shook his head slightly at the jab, a wordless "not now."

"If you'll excuse me, then," Dr. Harper said, rising from her chair, "I have some labs to order and some other, much more boring patients to see. The nurse will page me if anything happens."

"Thanks, Doc," Dean said. Dr. Harper nodded once to him in farewell, leaving Sam and Dean alone in the room.

"So, what, you were just going to pretend to be getting better until you dropped dead?" Dean asked with a sickly smile.

"I didn't want you to worry about something we didn't have enough information about," Sam retorted, voice more heated than Dean had thought his brother could muster. "We've got fallen angels, a cured demon in our glove box, and Cas -"

"- who is a basket of problems all on his own -"

"Exactly." Sam gestured at Dean. "There was no point in adding to your list until there was actually something to tell you."

Turning the statement over in his head several times, Dean had trouble finding exactly what was wrong with it. "Still," he said, pointing a finger, "you keep me in the loop. You hear me? If something happens and I have to - to make some sort of...decision..."

And with that, the last wall of defense that Dean had been maintaining wavered, then cracked with a snap that seemed to physically reverberate through him. Pressing both palms hard against his eyes, Dean leaned back against the wall again, shoulders hunched, breath coming in sharp, painful gasps as he tried to stave off the tide of enormity he had been suppressing for - well, for years.

"Dean?" Sam sounded hesitant, disbelieving.

"I'm fine," Dean tried to choke out, but it came out strangled and as unconvincing as it was possible to be. "Just gimme a second."

It truly was only a second; whenever these cracks in his exterior happened, it rarely took more than a few heartbeats to get himself under control again. Heart still racing, Dean lowered his hands to push himself back away from the wall.

Sam was staring at him with concern and fear plain on his face. "You're really red."

"It happens." Dean shrugged, tamping down the tumultuous dervish of emotions into a tiny, white-hot ball in the pit of his stomach where it belonged.

His phone buzzed again, forgotten in his pocket, and desperate for anything to change the subject, Dean drew it out and unlocked it.

_2 New Messages_

_Cas is in his room and waking up._

And, the previous message he'd been too distracted to read,

_They're moving Cas to a new room now._

"Cas?" Sam guessed.

Nodding, Dean pressed reply. "Waking up. Don't say it," he said loudly as Sam opened his mouth. "I have to stick around for a tissue sample, remember?" He told Kevin as much, with the now-stale promise that he'd be there as soon as he could, and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"Dean," Sam said slowly, "how are you going to survive once Cas is awake all the time?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you can't be in both places at once."

The question lingered in the air, nearly tangible. Dean sighed. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." He flopped into a chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes. "Now pipe down. I'm taking a nap."

Sam watched anxiously from across the room as Dean's features slowly relaxed and smoothed; it did not do much to erase the careworn weariness that had more or less become a constant in the last few years.

A fitful doze stole over Sam, as well, the hum of the machines that claimed he was still alive lulling him into a listless stupor.

* * *

Crowley was exceptionally bored.

The ache in his shoulder was at least something he could focus on - a tangible, physical pain that he expertly drew out of all proportion until such a thing was an absolute crime against good taste. He composed a bloody soliloquy on the wrongs that were being done as he sat alone in the back of the oily box of bolts and springs and scuffed leather.

It was better than confronting the not-so-physical ache in his chest that, though it had been centuries since he'd felt it, he finally came to realize was guilt. Allowing his mind to linger upon it made it swell, rubbing raw against the confines he'd placed upon it. Like an angry bear, he was fairly certain that if he tried to face it head-on, he would come out on the worse end of that encounter. And like an encounter with an angry bear, he'd be damned (again) if he let The Eldest Winchester see him after the fact.

Between not thinking about it and running out of new and exciting ways to whinge about his current predicament on purely superficial levels, he was quickly diminishing his options of ways to amuse himself. Honestly, it was enough to make a demon wish he could sleep.

Disinterested lassitude was no excuse for relaxed vigilance, however, so it was absolutely shameful the way he jumped in surprise as an elbow smashed the glass of the car's window, showering him in jagged edges just before the hand that belonged to the elbow reached inside the car, groping.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Would you stop that? It's embarrassing."

The groping arm froze, then retreated. A face poked through the window next; Crowley recognized the demon lurking behind the human features and stifled a cringe. Of course it would be _this_ bellend of a lieutenant. Still, he could work with the tools he had at hand, even if it meant speaking very slowly and clearly.

"Boss," the demon said in a low, urgent voice, "it's a madhouse down there."

"It's Hell," Crowley responded scathingly. "I'd be more worried if it wasn't."

The demon shot him a look of such contempt that Crowley begrudgingly added a few IQ points to his original assessment. "There's a Knight who is trying to reinstate the Order in your absence. She doesn't have much traction - yet - but if you spend much more time topside -"

"Sparky," Crowley snapped. The demon's mouth snapped shut in indignation at the address. "Do you know why you are second in command?" He paused in the manner of rhetorical questions before continuing. "So you can bloody _command_ when I'm _busy_." He shook the manacles on his wrists meaningfully. "Your one job is to mind the farm while I take care of the numerous pains in my ass."

The demon raised his eyebrows at the manacles. "Do you need some help with those?" he asked with exaggerated politeness.

Crowley closed his eyes. "Someday, I will be truly blessed with a lieutenant who understands the difficult concept of _subterfuge_," he said with heat, opening his eyes at the last word. "No," he clarified bitingly. "I need these overgrown children to believe they've got me over a barrel. Which means I need you and all the other peons to stay the bloody hell away from me unless I specifically summon them. Are we clear?" He didn't wait for a response. "Now skedaddle. I'm busy."

After one more look dripping with loathing, the demon shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked away.

Crowley watched him leave, craning his neck until the rows of cars hid the other demon from view, and was about the heave a sigh of relief when -

"What the _hell_ did you do to my car?"

For the second time, Crowley flinched in surprise when he really oughtn't have. "My apologies. An associate of mine attempted to rescue me." He gestured at the broken window. "I know a guy. Good as new. Bulletproof, if you want it. Maybe a bitchin' tint."

"Cut the crap," Dean snapped, peering in the gaping hole in the glass at Crowley. "If someone came to get you, why are you still here?"

"I told him I was detained at the moment." Shrugging, Crowley tried not to let his delight show as exasperation narrowed Dean's eyes.

"No. Why didn't you leave?" Dean clarified, very slowly, as though Crowley were slow to understand.

Leaning forward as much as the manacles would allow, Crowley matched Dean's tone. "Because you and I have an arrangement that we still need to clarify." He swallowed, almost involuntarily. "And other reasons, which I hardly think need enumerating."

It was amazing, watching the little hamster run in its wheel as Dean processed this. "And your buddy just left? Because you said you were busy?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Hello? King of Hell. I say frog - three people jump and one brings me a Frenchman." He gestured at the broken window again. "Seriously, though. I think a forty percent tint would look very classy."

"Shut it." Dean reached through the window with the key to the manacles; trying not to seem too eager, Crowley brought his wrists up as much as he could to meet it. Having them on was a whisper-light oppressive feeling, easily ignored unless one put his mind to it. As the tumblers in the lock clicked, Crowley felt every muscle in his body relax, loosed of a tension he hadn't realized had been building.

"Back to see Castiel, is it?" He asked as he unfolded himself from the car, trying not to tear his already ragged suit on the shards of glass.

Dean's expression became sharp, wary. "I never said it was Cas."

"Please," Crowley replied, giving Dean his best patronizing look, "I can read the writing on the wall. Angels Falling - most of Heaven, from what I could see from my little window - and there's no one else besides Sam for whom you'd tolerate my company to go see." If The Elder Winchester hadn't been so bloody tall, Crowley would have looked down on him with a smile. "Your angel's lost his wings, which puts me in a very interesting position indeed."

Crowley wasn't sure which of his careful phrases set Dean off, but the haymaker that was currently aimed for his temple was the perfect example of wild abandon and suppressed rage that he had been expecting. Just before the punch connected, Crowley caught Dean's wrist in one hand and siphoned that glorious energy off to fuel the tip sideways across the many miles that stood between them and one very helpless former angel.

* * *

The hospital room wasn't a private one, but the bed closest to the door was currently empty, the curtain drawn partway around the bed next to the window. As Dean let the door close behind him, the curtain whisked to the side.

"Dean." Kevin's voice was thick with lack of sleep; Dean recognized the tone all too well.

And then, from the bed, "Dean."

This voice was exhausted, too, and in a slightly higher register than he was used to hearing it, but Dean's ears would have picked it out from a crowd in a heartbeat. "Hey, Cas." He nodded a greeting at Kevin, who bobbed a short nod in return and rose from his chair, silently excusing himself.

"Is Sam okay?" There was just the slightest hesitation before Castiel said the name.

"It's complicated." Dean lowered himself into the chair Kevin had just vacated by the head of the bed and reached out to take Castiel's hand. "What about you? You okay?"

Castiel let out a quiet snort of derision. "They literally put me back together with staples and glue, and my head feels like it's made of smoke. Nothing's clear, and I can't grab at any of it, but there are all these shapes that I can't quite make out." He sighed. "Kevin's been trying to fill me in on some of it. It's strange, hearing about your life secondhand."

The knot that had never really disappeared from Dean's middle tightened painfully again. "So the noggin's still not working?"

Castiel shook his head. "Like I said. Shapes. General ideas." He looked up, directly into Dean's eyes with a familiarity that made Dean's breath catch. "You're pretty clear. Or - well, aspects of you." He coughed slightly and looked back down. "You're important to me. And I'm important to you. But...well, Kevin said that it's...it's not like that."

It was phrased very carefully not to be a question, but Dean answered it anyway. "No. It's not." He gave Castiel's hand a quick squeeze before dropping it. "But you're still...I mean, you're important. To me." He swallowed, casting about for a subject change. "What else do you know?"

"Not a lot," Castiel admitted. "Your brother is in another hospital, and you're shuttling between the two of us. Kevin's a little new to this strange little family, and he didn't really know me very well. My name is James Castiel Novak, I'm thirty-six, I'm estranged from my blood relatives and I'm a Hunter."

The last word made Dean blink in surprise. "A Hunter?" he asked carefully.

Castiel nodded. "Demons, monsters -" he lowered his voice - "things we can't talk about around normal people." He raised an eyebrow. "It's how we met."

"You remember that?"

Another nod. "Shapes. Sky's blue, peanut butter is disgusting, demons and monsters are running amok." He shrugged, then winced at the action. "And you," he added, and his voice was so quiet that he actually sounded like Castiel for the barest of moments. "You've been there for me. Always. You're the kind of friend I always wanted and didn't deserve."

Dean didn't know what to do with that. Ignoring it seemed the safest option for now. "And angels?" he pressed. "Anything about them?"

A brief shadow crossed over Castiel's face. "Just that there aren't any anymore."

The knot twisted again and Dean licked his lips. "Well. You're not wrong."

"Dean?" Castiel hesitated. "Is...there something you and Kevin aren't telling me?"

"Oh, there's a whole hell of a lot that we're not telling you," Dean said, shaking his head, "mostly because we're not sure about it either."

The sound of a phone vibrating in Dean's pocket startled them both. A grim little smile thinned Castiel's lips as Dean's hand automatically went to grab the phone. "You're going to leave again, aren't you?"

It didn't sound bitter or disappointed, just flat. It felt like a stab to the gut anyway. "Not this time, Cas." Dean let his hand drop and he reached for Castiel's instead. "I'm sorry," he said after too many beats of silence. "If I was the kind of friend you think I am, I would have been here hours ago." He should say more, but the words that presented themselves were thin, useless. "You would leave all the time," he blurted finally. "It was always something important. Something you couldn't ignore. I always gave you a hard time about it. I get it now." He tilted his head in a tiny shrug before looking at up to meet Castiel's eyes. "Too little, too late, I guess. You don't remember it, and I'm the asshole now."

"You're not an..." Castiel's protest died as the phone vibrated again. "You should make sure Sam is okay."

"Sam's fine," Dean said. "I'm giving him my bone marrow and that'll fix him up. I'm _here_ now." He cleared his throat. "The nurses kept telling me that you were asking for me when you woke up. And Kevin said you were looking for me just before you went down."

"I don't remember much before waking up in the hospital," Castiel admitted. "I don't know what kind of accident I was in. I just - and I was probably imagining it, since you obviously weren't there - I remember you shouting my name." He looked down, and so missed the horrified realization as it spread across Dean's face like an inkblot. "And I was worried about you. That was my first thought when I woke up, that I - I had to find you. That you needed me."

Dean kept his eyes trained on the knuckles of his hand. His last, desperate prayer, just before the fires in the sky had begun - and Castiel had heard it. Had wanted to come, and couldn't, because bare moments later...

"Dean? Are you all right?"

"I need some water. Or coffee. Or something." He needed to walk more than anything, but having a destination in mind would keep him from wandering aimlessly. "I'm not leaving," he insisted as he rose from his chair. "I just..."

Castiel nodded, and as though given permission, Dean strode toward the door with an inexplicable urgency.

* * *

"He's not answering," Sam said as he hung up on Dean's voicemail greeting for the second time.

Dr. Harper nodded and sat down in the chair next to him. "Do you want to hear the results without him?"

No doubt the doctor thought she was hiding her reaction well, but Sam, who had spent most of his life deciphering when Dean was not being completely honest about his emotional state, knew better. "I think I probably should."

Unsurprised, Dr. Harper took a breath. "Dean's tissues are close, but they don't meet compatibility requirements. He...can't be your donor."


	5. Waking Nightmare

A bank of windows overlooked one of the courtyards of the hospital, beads of rain racing down the glass as the clouds let loose what they had been threatening all day. Dean pressed his forehead against one of the windows, closing his eyes to focus on the cool smoothness, trying and failing to calm himself.

"You all right?"

Dean didn't look around at Kevin. "I'm about as far from all right as I can be and still be vertical."

"Here."

Glancing over his shoulder, his first instinct was to wave off the proffered coffee cup. Kevin thrust it forward again. "This is the good stuff. From the cart in the atrium. You look like you need it."

"Yeah, well, you don't look so hot either." Dean ran a hand wearily across his face as he accepted the cup. Caffeine would only get him so far; he'd need more than a catnap soon. "How much of what he knows did you tell him?"

Suddenly intent, Kevin leaned closer. "Not that much. I didn't say anything about demons or Hunters; he came up with that on his own." He bit his lip. "He mostly wanted to talk about you. Keeps saying that you're the only thing that comes in clear."

"I noticed that." Dean took a long sip of the coffee to avoid expounding upon that line of conversation. "And he's talky. Don't think I've ever heard him say that many words together before."

"Part of that is the pain meds," Kevin said. "The nurses all said they'd make him talkative. But..." His brow furrowed, as though he were trying to puzzle out the best way to say something. "I never knew Cas very well," he said finally, "but I don't think that's Cas in there. Or, well, not Castiel."

Something fell into place with Kevin's words, something that had been nagging at the back of Dean's mind from the second Castiel had woken up. "Keep going."

"I'm - just listen to him. It's like he's coming up with what his life should have been. Rewriting himself into who he wants to be." A thoroughly troubled look settled into Kevin's features.

"Based on a true story," Dean mused softly. "With all the parts that make him feel like shit cut out." He looked up at the dreary gray clouds above them. "It's guilt. Plain and simple. Heaven literally falling down around his ears was the last straw. He couldn't stand himself for another minute." He shook his head. "God, I know what that feels like."

A gust of wind spattered rain against the windows in a burst of muted percussion. "So do we tell him?" Kevin ventured.

"Do we even have the right?" Dean studied the rivulets of water as they made their way down the glass. "He's in pain, he's upset, and he's confused, and this is still the happiest I think I've ever seen him." He sighed heavily. "But yeah. We tell him. Of course we tell him."

Kevin nodded slowly. "Okay. When?"

Delaying for another moment as he sipped at the coffee, Dean stared out the window again. "Haven't worked that out yet. Sooner rather than later." He let out a tiny frustrated sigh. "How soon, though...no idea."

"What about Sam?" Kevin asked hesitantly when it was clear Dean wasn't going to say anything else.

"Right. I should call him back." Dean pulled his phone from his jacket pocket.

* * *

Sam blinked. It had to be the fatigue numbing the edges of his mind. He had to have heard incorrectly.

"He can't be a donor?" he asked dully. "But...but he's my brother."

Sympathy traced lines into Dr. Harper's forehead. "Siblings are a tissue match about seventy percent of the time. The odds were very good, but in this case..."

Sam shook his head. "Fine. Okay. So what now?" Best to not dwell on it. Dean would likely do enough dwelling for the both of them. "I just sit here and wait around for someone else to match me?"

"Actually, I can give you some good news on that front." Dr. Harper nodded at one of the monitors. "Your oxygen saturation levels are holding steady. Still a little lower than the norm, but enough to make me happy. The transfusions are doing the job. Assuming you continue to be stable, I think I'll be able to discharge you to outpatient status this evening."

"Outpatient?" Sam repeated.

"Until we find you a donor, you're still going to need several units of blood every few weeks," Dr. Harper explained, "to replace the transfusions you've already gotten as those cells die. But you don't need to do that here. I can transfer your care to a hospital closer to home, and you can check yourself in every other week or so, similar to a dialysis patient. In the meantime, you can be at home."

Shaking his head to try and quiet the thousand thoughts clamoring for attention, Sam held up a hand. "Wait. So I'm dying, but I'm not sick enough to stay in the hospital?"

Dr. Harper cocked her head. "Do you want to stay in the hospital?"

"No. Hell no. I just -" It was useless to try and make sense of the jumble that was his overtired thought processes right now. Sam brought one hand up to rub his eyes. "How long will I have to wait?"

"It's difficult to say." Dr. Harper rapped one knuckle on the clipboard that held Sam's chart. "It all comes down to tissue types, who is currently in the registry, how far away they live - though bone marrow can be safely outside the body for lot longer than, say, a lung." Her eyes tightened slightly, the only outward indication that she was not as pleased about what she was saying as she was pretending to be. "The average wait for a bone marrow donor is about seven months to a year."

"A year?" Sam let his hand drop. "A year of sitting around at home, waiting, going to the hospital every two weeks to get an oil change?" A horrible thought occurred to him, and it leapt into words before he could consider whether it was a good thing to ask. "How long can I even live doing the transfusions?"

There it was again, the tightening around the eyes, although the rest of Dr. Harper's face fell slightly, as well. "About a year. Maybe a year and a half," she said, attempting to keep eye contact with Sam but letting her eyes fall to his chart at the last word.

The tempest of conflicting thoughts in Sam's head ceased, replaced by a high-pitched whine that was even less conducive to logic. "So...so I'm just going to wait around until I die."

"A match could show up next week, or next month. There's no pattern of predictability to this system," Dr. Harper said firmly.

"Or one might not. I'm a dead man walking." Sam shook his head, a bitter laugh of disbelief threatening to burst from him. "Not even walking. I don't even think I'm up to that."

"Sam." Dr. Harper laid a hand on his arm. "I need you to calm down. You've leapt to the absolutely worst-case scenario. You're young, and relatively healthy. The speed with which you've bounced back is remarkable. You might be able to continue with transfusions for years. And we might find you a donor within weeks. I'm not saying this to make you feel better," she added seriously as Sam shook his head. "I'm saying it because it's true. There are a lot of factors here that don't lend themselves to any precedent. I think - I truly do - that you are going to come out of this healthy and happy."

The room phone rang, its jangling warble enough to make Sam jump. He could feel the blood drain from his face. "That's my brother." He looked over to Dr. Harper. "What do I tell him?"

Dr. Harper stood. "Whatever you think you should tell him. I'll give you some privacy." She turned, then paused. "I might start with the news that you're going home tonight."

* * *

The phone conversation did not look like it was going well, and it didn't look like it was going to end anytime soon. Not enjoying pretending he couldn't hear or see what was happening, Kevin finally wandered back down the corridor and found himself back in Castiel's room.

"He's on the phone," he said in explanation as Castiel looked over at the door hopefully, only for his face to fall when it wasn't Dean who walked through. "With Sam."

"Ah." Castiel looked back down at his hands, inspecting the clip on one of his fingers that glowed with a red light. "Do you have any brothers? Or sisters?" he asked suddenly.

Taken aback, Kevin hesitated for a moment. "Only child," he replied belatedly.

"What about Sam and Dean? Aren't they...?" Castiel trailed off, gesturing incoherently at the door.

Kevin blinked. "I...I mean, I guess, kind of. I get along with them. They've gone to bat for me, that's for sure." He shrugged, unsatisfied with the answer. "I don't know if I'd call them family. Not yet."

"But I did. Do." Castiel shook his head. "Whatever."

They were coming very close to dangerous territory. Kevin desperately wished Dean would walk in and either dispel the conversation or give Kevin some sort of indication as to what he was supposed to divulge. "You were like family," he said after too long a pause. "Stronger than family, in some ways, I think. I don't know. I spent most of my time doing research. I didn't get to see them a lot, and I only met you a couple times until this week."

Research. The word tugged at something in the primal depths of his brain, fuel for the spark of addiction he'd been quelling for two days now. It was baser than hunger or fatigue, this need to be near the tablet. Either tablet - now that he'd touched the Angel tablet it was as much a part of him as the Demon tablet had ever been; more than a limb. More like an eye. Yes. Being away from it, leaving it untranslated, was as distracting as if he'd just gone half-blind.

He shook his head. It was bearable, for now. "Do you remember anything about your family?" he prompted.

Castiel's eyebrows knit together as he considered. "Disfunctional," he said finally. "And - more or less happier when I wasn't around." He gave the tiniest shrug, eyes distant. "Nothing more specific than that. Just a general sense of fighting and feeling excluded."

Nodding out of a lack of anything better to say, Kevin cast about for another conversation topic - anything to fill the oppressive silence - and almost wept in gratitude when the door swung open.

"Hey," Dean said, pulling the door shut behind him.

The hairs at the back of Kevin's neck prickled. Something was wrong. Dean's neutral, exhausted expression looked crystalline, brittle, as though the slightest tap would shatter it to pieces. He moved like it pained him and he was trying not to show it as he settled himself into the chair by Castiel's side. Kevin caught his eye, and the unasked question floated tangibly between them.

"Sam's being discharged tonight," Dean said gruffly, voice oddly expressionless. "I can't give him bone marrow. He'll live off transfusions for a few months until they can find a donor." He let out a forceful sigh that could have been a single sardonic laugh. "That's assuming that whatever the Trials did to him doesn't ramp it up over time. And that a bone marrow transplant even works." He looked around the hospital room with hollow eyes. "This isn't how we're supposed to die. Supposed to be quick and bloody and..."

Slowly, Castiel reached out and laid a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean flinched, but didn't pull away; he in fact visibly leaned into the touch, almost sagging against it, eyes closing as he lifted a hand to cover them. Castiel glanced at Kevin and the concern written so plainly across his face struck Kevin to his core.

He wasn't supposed to be seeing this - not the cracks in Dean's armor nor Dean accepting comfort from someone. Kevin was sure of it, and he felt like the most brazen kind of interloper as he looked down at his knees, because he was almost positive he wasn't supposed to see the hopeless affection that fueled the worry in Castiel's eyes, either.

The eternal moment flowed like cold honey, so slowly that Kevin started to feel the slightest bit of anxiety, until Dean heaved a huge sigh and lifted his face. He hadn't been crying - Kevin didn't know what he'd have done if that had been the case - but his expression was oddly blank, as though he were trying to remember what it looked like to be calm.

"I think we all need sleep," he said simply. "Then I'll go get Sam. Bring him home, then come back here. Cas, when did they say you'd be out?"

"Two days. Depends on how well I start healing." Castiel glanced down at his ribs and winced. "They did kind of cut me completely open."

"Right." Dean shifted in the chair, slumping down and crossing his arms.

"You're sleeping here?" Castiel asked in surprise.

Dean looked over, the blank expression on his face softening. "I said I wasn't going anywhere this time." His eyes flicked over to Kevin, as though just remembering that they were not alone in the room. "You staying here?"

"Nah." The yearning to be near the tablet had blossomed into a dull ache at the base of Kevin's skull; it provided an excellent excuse to get somewhere he couldn't see the way Castiel stole glances at Dean when Dean wasn't looking. "I, uh, want to get back to the tablet. I can take a cab as far as the highway and walk the rest."

It was a mark of how exhausted Dean really was that he didn't argue, but simply waved a hand in vague acquiesence. "See you tonight, then."

Hitching his backpack onto one shoulder, Kevin nodded. "Tonight."

* * *

Sam was asleep almost as soon as he'd reclined in the back seat.

It wasn't true sleep, not at first; more the fitful doze somewhere between waking and sleeping, aware of disconnected snatches of muted conversation from the front seat and the snap of the plastic over the broken window as Dean drove, but interwoven with long moments of the nonsensical continuity of dreams.

"...haven't told him yet?" Crowley was saying. He sounded amused.

"One shock at a time," Dean retorted defensively.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'd do the same thing."

Sam couldn't see it, but he could imagine Dean's reaction to that; he'd grip the steering wheel more tightly, knuckles turning white, brows turning downward as he stared intently at the road. He wanted to speak up, wanted to tell Dean that it was what Sam would have done, too - not to let Crowley get to him - but talking felt so far away and it was so much easier to just drift...

"Hello, Sam."

Suddenly, startlingly awake - more awake than he'd been in days - Sam's eyes flew open and he scrambled to sit up, only to find he was already standing. The bright light did not hurt his eyes like it should have after the darkness of the back seat, and the featureless plane on which he stood had no color his eyes could discern - but it was not precisely white. It was simply nothing.

"Dreaming," he said aloud, and his voice seemed to stop at his mouth, pressing against him, dampened. It didn't echo. It didn't project.

"Yes," a voice behind him agreed - Sam didn't know how he knew it was behind him, as the sound did not seem as though it had traveled, but he spun.

And his stomach turned to ice.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No. Not again."

"Again?" Lucifer looked puzzledly amused.

"You're not real," Sam insisted, unconsciously taking a step back. "You're still in the Cage. You're not really here."

"Mmm. One out of three, I'm afraid." Lucifer slid his hands into his pockets and took a casual step forward. "This is a dream - or something enough like it - so of course I'm not actually here." He stopped in front of Sam, who swallowed against the bile rising at the back of his throat and fought to hold eye contact. "But real? Very. And as for the Cage..." He chuckled. "That's the beauty of spells written before the Cage was ever conceived. They tend to supercede just about everything."

Lucifer paused, as though waiting for Sam to say something. Sam licked his lips. "Spells?" he asked obligingly, faking a bravado he couldn't even begin to feel.

"'_And the Angels shall be brought low to walk upon the Earth, the Gates of Heaven barred to their Return_,'" Lucifer said with the air of a man quoting something, slowly circling Sam. He raised a critical eyebrow. "Bit sloppy, really. It probably should have specified that it only applied to angels currently in Heaven." He grinned lazily over his shoulder at Sam. "They could have avoided all sorts of problems."

"No." Sam shook his head again, shutting his eyes tightly. No. This was just - he was exhausted. This had happened last time he'd been this tired. That was all. "Go away."

"You know I can't do that, Sam," Lucifer said in a pitying tone. "You see, you've said 'yes' to me once before - it's how I can hang around here so cozily. But I do need another formal invitation if I want to set up shop again."

Sam stared in sick disbelief. "And what makes you think I would ever - ever - do that again?"

"Oh, several reasons," Lucifer said earnestly, leaning casually against a wall that wasn't there. "The most important being I can protect your brother."

The question was almost on Sam's lips before he bit his tongue, refusing to give Lucifer the satisfaction. Lucifer shot him a condescending half-smile.

"Heaven knows that your brother is - shall we say, intimately tied - to one Castiel. The one responsible for this little fiasco." Lucifer gestured vaguely around him. "He's good at hiding, Castiel is, and no doubt he knows already that our brothers and sisters are...displeased. Displeasure tends to be fatal in our family. I don't blame him for hiding. But if they can't find him...I assure you, you and Dean are much, much simpler to locate."

_He doesn't know. He doesn't know that Cas_ - Sam threw the thought from his mind forcefully. Lucifer was in his head - possibly - and even if Sam wasn't positive his mind could be read like an open book... "We've hidden from angels before. Angels at full power. I think we can stay one step ahead of Fallen angels."

"Fallen?" Lucifer asked innocently. "And what makes you think a Fallen angel is powerless?" He laughed softly at Sam's face as Sam felt his blood run cold. "I'm Fallen, remember? Just because an angel can't draw on the might of Heaven doesn't mean they're a force to be trifled with."

Sam set his jaw. "You're barking up the wrong tree. No. Never. I don't care what you say you can do -"

"I could heal you."

Mouth snapping shut in surprise, Sam could do nothing but stare.

"All that energy boiling around in your bones, Sam? You can still feel it, can't you? The force required to bind every demon permanently within Hell." Lucifer looked almost sympathetic. "No human body's built to contain that kind of energy. And it'll just burn hotter, feeding on itself like a supernova until..." He made a very illustrative hand gesture, accompanied by an explosive sound effect.

Sam swallowed hard against the flux of terrified nausea that rose in his middle.

"I've never lied to you. Not once. And I'm not lying now. Get whatever blood transfusions or transplants or surgeries that you want. It won't change a thing. Without my help, you won't live to see the snow fly - and how long do you honestly think your brother will hold on without you?"

The world was shaking, wavering - Lucifer's features became more indistinct as darkness rushed in -

Gasping, Sam opened his eyes and sat up fast enough to make his head spin. For a sickening moment he didn't know where he was, until the musty smell of old leather and road dust anchored his senses back into reality.

"You okay?" Dean asked, twisting back to place both hands on the wheel. He'd shaken Sam awake, Sam realized dimly. "You were muttering. And you're sweaty."

"Bad dream," Sam admitted, rubbing his face with unsteady hands. "Nothing I can't handle." Indeed, the details of it were starting to slip away like water through his fingers, and he welcomed it.

"Well, I hope you didn't run out of sleep," Dean said as he turned onto a dirt road with no streetlights. "We're home."

* * *

Crowley argued against the necessity of being hooded - he knew exactly where the Bunker was, could pick out where the Winchesters slept right this very second - but either he was tired or he was just losing his patience with arguing. Both explanations seemed equally unlikely, but Dean wasn't going to complain about whatever force had made Crowley shut up and consent to being led into the bunker hooded and chained.

The minute Dean set foot in the main room, he could feel the hairs on the back of his next stand up on end. There was a difference between a room that was empty and a room where someone was waiting quietly. He let his hand fall from its grip on Crowley's shoulder and go to the gun at his hip as Sam flicked on the light switch.

He didn't even have to think about it - he had already aimed and squeezed off two shots before he really registered the tall man in a charcoal grey suit in the very center of the room, the report of the gun echoing deafeningly off the walls. Aside from jumping at the impact, the man didn't seem to react to the bullets at all.

"Don't know why I even carry a gun," Dean muttered as he shoved it back in the waistband of his jeans, going for one of his knives. The man - obviously not a man - the creature was nearly halfway to Dean now, moving quickly with a deadly grace Dean could have sworn he'd seen somewhere before. Silver knife would be the best bet; Dean would cover the most bases with it -

The creature knocked it from his hand as though Dean had brandished it like a child; his wrist stung belatedly at the strike, but he didn't really notice as the creature pushed him against the wall, forearm pressing alarmingly against his windpipe -

Bright white light flooded the room, accompanied by a soundless roar that was more felt than heard. Dean could hear Crowley growl "bloody fuck!" and then the pressure at his throat was gone, and he stumbled away from the wall as the spots slowly began to dissolve from before his eyes.

Sam stood at the other side of the room, chest heaving, hand pressed against a bloody smear in the middle of a sigil on the wall. The angel-banishing sigil they'd drawn a month ago, just in case. It took Dean's fatigue-addled mind a moment to add up all the figures in the scene, but then...

"Sam?" he asked slowly, deliberately. "How did you know that was an angel?"

Sam licked his lips, hopelessness pinching the corners of his eyes. "Dean. I think we might have a problem."


	6. Warding

It was Dean's raised voice, the heated rumble of it, that finally broke through the trance of Kevin's concentration. He blinked hard against the gritty feeling under his eyelids and shook his head, swallowing the dryness that had built at the back of his throat. As though paying notice to it suddenly made it more real, his stomach yawned in hunger, a flash of dizziness that made him take a shaky breath.

Right. Yes. Eating. Eating was good. He should go do that. And maybe find out why Dean was shouting, too.

As he followed the sound of Dean's voice into the library, however, he was greeted with a perplexing sight: Sam slumped in one of the chairs, pale to the point of appearing wan, and Dean bracing himself against the backs of one of the other chairs, as though he had just been presented with terrible news. Both of them looked up as Kevin ventured slowly into the library, their eyes widening.

"Kevin." Dean said it with such a tone of disbelief that Kevin was fairly certain they had both forgotten he was here.

Kevin's eyes darted back and forth between them. "Am I interrupting something?"

"You were here the whole time?" Sam asked.

"I've been here for hours," Kevin replied slowly. "Upstairs."

"And the angel never even..." Dean let out a forced exhalation. "So they are after Cas."

"Or didn't know Kevin was here," Sam interjected.

"Wait." Kevin held up a hand. "There was an angel here?"

"Couldn't have been for long." Dean rubbed at his eyes with one hand. "I don't imagine he'd have left you alive, if he'd had time to investigate. We got here at just the right time." He looked up with an odd expression. "You didn't hear the gunshots?"

But Kevin's mind was focused on something entirely different. "Isn't this place warded against angels?"

Dean shook his head.

Closing his eyes, Kevin took a deep breath. "The angels know I'm a Prophet. By now, they know I have the angel tablet. You're telling me it's safer here than anywhere else, but it's not warded against angels?"

"Warding it against angels means warding it against Cas," Dean said flatly. "That's not an option."

"Cas isn't an -" Kevin began, but Dean shot him such a stern look that it stilled his tongue.

"We don't know that," he said, his tone simmering. "The guy's had memory things before. He's worse than a bad soap opera. For all we know he'll snap out of it and come peacocking in any second now."

Sharing a quick glance with Sam, Kevin decided to let it lie. Dean saw the look pass between them and his brow furrowed, but instead of saying anything, he turned to Sam. "Did he give you any other clues?"

Sam shook his head wearily. "I've told you the whole conversation. He's out of the cage. He needs a vessel. The angels are pissed at Cas, and they're not powerless - not completely, anyway." He licked his lips and brought the heels of his hands up to press against his eyes. "You woke me up before he could really get into anything else."

"Who is 'he?'" Kevin interjected.

"Lucifer," Dean replied shortly.

"Lucifer? As in Satan, Lucifer?" Kevin's eyes darted between Sam and Dean, who suddenly didn't seem to want to look at him.

"It's a long story," Dean finally said, and then something clearly occurred to him, his face going blank. "That means Michael's out, too."

Somehow, Sam managed to look even more stricken. "And he already has a vessel."

Swearing, Dean started to pace. "Great. So we've got two archangels on the loose, and one has a vessel and a really good reason to be pissed at Cas. We've got who knows how many other angels pissed off at Cas for breaking the world, some of them have vessels, and they somehow know about this place. We've got Cas on angel sabbatical in the hospital with no idea what's going on. We've got you on three percent battery and Lucifer in your head. Am I forgetting anything?"

"Crowley in the dungeon and Abaddon MIA?" Sam suggested.

"Angel tablet?" Kevin added. "Also, Crowley? Dungeon? What?"

"Cas is exposed in that hospital," Sam pointed out. "And he doesn't know enough to protect himself. Go get him. I'll bring Kevin up to speed."

"He's probably safer there than here," Dean argued. "If the angels know we're here, then they'll assume Cas is here, and this place is going to be an angel magnet. He's hidden in plain sight there."

"Are you willing to bet his life on that?" Sam asked. "If he's here, we can at least banish the angels. If he's there, and they find him..."

"Shit," Dean muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Fine. I'll be back in an hour." Still grumbling under his breath, Dean swiped the car keys from the table and stalked out of the room.

* * *

"Visiting hours were over at eight," the floor nurse called in a bored tone of voice as Dean passed the nurse's station.

"I know," Dean said, slowing and flashing her the best smile he could manage. It wasn't up to his usual standard. She didn't seem fazed. "I'm just - I'm here to see Cas. Uh, Castiel Novak? Room 8C?"

"It's ten past nine," the nurse said pointedly.

Sighing inwardly, Dean decided that the convenient fiction might work faster than trying to sweet talk his way past. "I know, I just -" he lowered his voice and leaned closer toward her. "I'm not used to sleeping alone."

All at once, the nurse's expression changed. "Oh, so you're Dean."

The flush at the back of his neck blazing, Dean nodded, dropping his eyes. "Yeah. I'm Dean."

"According to him, you hung the moon and the stars." The nurse glanced around. "I'm off in ten minutes. If anyone gives you trouble, tell them Wanda said you could be here. Just don't bother any of the other patients."

"Thanks. I won't." Trying not to think too hard about what Castiel might have said about him, Dean adjusted the strap of his duffel and strode quickly towards the room.

Castiel was asleep, mouth slightly open, messy hair dark against the pillowcase. Dean didn't turn on the room lights as he closed the door quietly and laid the duffel at the foot of the bed.

"Cas," he whispered, reaching out to tap Castiel on the shoulder. "Hey. Wake up." He wondered if Castiel was just a deep sleeper, or if they'd given him something that made him sleep. "Cas," he tried again, grabbing the shoulder and shaking it. He leaned down until his mouth was at Castiel's ear. "Cas. Wake up. We gotta get out of here. I'll explain on the way, but you have to get up and get dressed."

Castiel stirred, and his cheek brushed Dean's before Dean pulled back hastily. "Dean?" Castiel asked, voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah. Here." Dean reached under Castiel's shoulders and helped him sit up, in the hopes that if Castiel was more or less vertical, he may wake up faster. Castiel didn't fight him, and reached up to rub at his eyes.

"We have to go? Go where?"

"Anywhere but here," Dean hedged, contemplating the IV in Castiel's right arm. "This'll hurt," he warned as he started working at the tape holding the tubing to Castiel's arm.

"Um, I think I need that," Castiel said hesitantly.

"Well, it can't come with us," Dean replied briskly. The tape peeled away, leaving a livid red mark in its wake, and Dean winced. "Brace yourself." Gripping the tubing near the needle, Dean waited for Castiel's cringing nod before he yanked.

The electrodes on Castiel's chest were going to be a problem all of their own; Dean was fairly sure alarms would start sounding on the machines around Castiel's bed if he removed them, and that would tell whoever was at the nurse's station to come running. Absently, he reached over and slipped the clip off Castiel's finger. Sure enough, the monitor started to ping. He reclipped the device to his own finger to shut it up and thought on the problem for a moment, watching as Castiel pressed his thumb against the bleeding wound that had once been his IV. "What do you do if you have to go to the bathroom?" Dean asked.

"I ring a nurse and they unhook me."

That wouldn't work. Best to do this as quickly as possible, then. "All right." Dean reached into the duffel and tossed Castiel a handful of clothes. "Put those on as best you can around the wires. We'll take 'em off last and make a run for it. Can you walk?"

Castiel paused from unbundling the shirt from the jeans and shot Dean a look. "It was my spleen they removed, not my knees."

"Just checking." Dean resisted the urge to pop his head into the hallway to test the landscape. "Hurry. I think it's a shift change right now. We can take advantage of that."

"And why are we sneaking out of the hospital in the middle of the night?" Castiel asked pointedly, wincing as he reached back to undo the ties of the hospital gown at his neck. "I can't get that. My entire chest is stiff."

"Here." Dean reached back and plucked at the knot, loosening it. He looked away hurriedly as Castiel pulled at the front of the gown and it fell away from his torso. "It's not safe here. We need to get you back to the bunker."

"Ah." Castiel made a soft pained noise. "The shirt's not happening. A little help?"

Dean set his jaw and looked back to Castiel, who had managed to get one arm into a sleeve and not much else. Nearly half his left torso was covered in a white gauze pad, and Dean blinked. "Damn. They really did slice you open, didn't they?"

"You noticed." Castiel winced again as Dean pulled the shirt around his back, and he wrenched his good arm around into the other sleeve and shrugged the shirt the rest of the way on. "Thanks. Yeah, I don't look forward to taking the dressing off and seeing what it looks like."

"Neither am I." Dean grabbed at Castiel's hand and clipped the monitor back onto Castiel's finger. Freed from the wire, he stood and walked to the door, risking a look out the window as Castiel pulled on the jeans. The corridor was still clear, and when Dean turned back around, Castiel was balling up the hospital gown.

"No shoes?" Castiel asked, looking down at his bare feet.

"Didn't know what size you wore. You'll be fine." It was now or never. Dean shouldered the duffel bag. "Fix your hair. It looks like a haystack. Then unhook yourself and let's get going."

Sure enough, the monitors began complaining loudly as soon as Castiel removed the first wire. After a gesture for haste from Dean, Castiel peeled the rest of the electrodes off hurriedly and fell into step beside Dean as they made good their escape.

Dean had prepared no fewer than three explanations for why he was escorting a barefoot man out of the post-surgery unit, but to his vague disappointment, they were not challenged by any of the hospital staff in the hallways. One of them even smiled at them. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or grumble - they hadn't been watertight stories, to be sure, but he'd been kind of proud of them. Now he'd never be able to use them.

Castiel nearly collapsed into the passenger seat, eyes closed tightly. "You all right?" Dean asked, pausing with the key floating next to the ignition.

With a dismissive wave, Castiel opened his eyes. "Fine. I'm fine. Just go."

They were on the freeway before Castiel spoke again. "I take it we're out of immediate danger?"

"Driving into the teeth of it, actually," Dean responded, glancing over at the passenger seat. The grim expression on Castiel's face could have been pain, but his next words made it clear that it was definitely annoyance.

"Are you going to tell me what's happening, or are you going to continue being cryptic?" he demanded. "Because it's getting old."

Dean felt a sour twist at the bottom of his stomach as he glanced over again. "Cas," he said, then realized he had no idea where to begin.

Castiel's expression softened; perhaps he sensed the difficulty. "Just - start with why we had to leave," he suggested.

"That's the thing. I can't - there's background that you need. Background that you don't have." Dean let out a long sigh as he studied the road in front of them. "You don't remember what happened before you blacked out."

"No."

Swallowing, Dean nodded. "You said you knew there weren't any angels anymore. How do you know that?"

The silence next to Dean was a living thing; he could almost feel the frustrated confusion rolling off Castiel in waves. "I don't know," Castiel admitted.

"It's because - you did something. A series of things." The words tasted bitter on Dean's tongue. "It made every single angel in Heaven fall." He tore his eyes from the road for a moment to look squarely into Castiel's disbelieving face. "Including you."

Castiel blinked. "But - I'm not a..."

Dean had to look away; the road was as straight and empty as ever and the car didn't need supervision, but he couldn't bear to watch the struggle on Castiel's face.

"I'm just Cas. Just me." The words sounded almost pleading.

"You're you," Dean confirmed, setting his jaw. "And you're an angel. And you slammed Heaven shut. And there are - hundreds? Maybe more? An assload of other fallen angels who aren't happy about it." He nodded at the road ahead of them. "We've already met one tonight. That's why we have to get you to the bunker. It's not safe, but it's safer than where you were."

"I don't believe you."

Dean chanced another glance over at Castiel, and something in his chest ached at how lost he looked. How oddly small, slumped back against the seat, staring unseeing into the middle distance.

"Cas," he said quietly, "have I ever lied to you?" Too late, he realized the question was useless.

"No," Castiel responded, without hesitation. Dean clenched his jaw. Whether fueled by instinct or hazy memory, Castiel's unwavering trust in Dean was as unsettling as it was comforting.

"Now would be a really shitty time to start." Dean swallowed. "You're not James Castiel Novak. You look like a guy named Jimmy Novak, because a couple years back you chose him as your vessel." Castiel looked as though he was made of stone. "Your name is Castiel. You're an angel. You've helped Sam and I through two or three ends of the world, and it looks like we're about to get caught up in another one."

"That I caused."

Dean hesitated. "Yes," he said finally.

"Why would I do that?" Castiel looked to Dean, anguish plain on his face. "Why would I...I'm just Cas. I woke up a day and a half ago and I'm just trying to make sense of everything, and you're saying that I..."

Dean licked his lips, his mind forcibly recalling Kevin's words. _He's rewriting himself into who he wants to be._ "Maybe _you _wouldn't," he said slowly. "Castiel would, and did. But..." Suddenly feeling every single hour of delayed sleep, Dean ran a hand over his face. "You don't remember anything. Even with me telling you."

"No."

Dean took a deep breath and shook his head. This wasn't how this conversation was supposed to go. He'd been prepared to deal with Castiel's guilt, with the endless apologies that he wasn't even sure the angel knew how to make work. He'd been prepared for Castiel to snap back to himself as he'd done before, once his actual identity had been revealed to him.

He hadn't been prepared for Cas to stay Cas.

"Cas," Dean said slowly. "I need you to believe me. That's who you were, and that's what you did. Who you are and what you do now..." he shrugged. "Like it or not, you're tied up in Castiel's mess, and you're going to have to deal with it."

Nodding, Cas took a deep breath. "That's easier to swallow, somehow."

Miles rolled away before Cas broke the uneasy silence. "What else aren't you telling me?" He paused, then blurted, "Do you and...and who I used to be...have a history I don't know about? Is that why you're pretending you're not angry with me?"

"I'm not angry with you," Dean replied automatically, wooden as it sounded. He let out a frustrated sound. "Honestly? Yes. This is just the latest of the shit that Cas - Castiel - has pulled. If it was anyone else, I'd have called it quits years ago."

"It?" Cas asked quickly.

"Our friendship," Dean clarified. He glanced quickly to the side. "That's real. And..." He shook his head. "Let's not get into how weird that dynamic is."

Cas nodded, but the silence that followed was thick and expectant. Dean licked his lips and found himself wanting to explain.

"I'd tie myself to a hurricane if he asked me to," he said suddenly. "Never mind how impossible it is. I'd find a way. There're too many people I've let down for me to let him down, too." A long look out of the corner of his eye showed him that Cas was listening intently, once again letting his eyes drift out of focus. "It's partly my fault," he admitted, speaking the entire truth for the first time in the hours that had followed that one pivotal night. "I helped him. He asked, and - he doesn't ask much. I had to. He was...I don't think he knew what he was doing. That's the only reason he roped me into it." He swallowed, his own eyes unfocusing slightly with memory. "He thought he was doing the right thing. Just like he always is."

"How is making the angels fall the right thing?" Cas asked haltingly.

Dean blinked. He'd almost forgotten that he wasn't alone in the car - and not only was he not alone, but it was Cas in the passenger seat. Cas, who wasn't the Cas he knew at all - who was just different enough from the angel Dean remembered to be someone else entirely, and yet, from the corner of his eye, Dean couldn't see anyone else but Castiel sitting there. He took a breath as his mind struggled to reconcile the two. "Castiel was so noble it made my teeth hurt. He...was a genuinely good person. It made him very easy to manipulate."

Dean shook his head, a wry, bitter smile twisting his mouth. "It didn't take much. Mention 'fixing Heaven' and you had his undivided attention. And once he had the bit in his teeth, it didn't matter who you were - if you tried to stand in his way..." He trailed off. "It's not so much that he was always up to his elbows in the shit he caused. It was more that...he never learned."

After a long moment, during which Dean turned off the freeway toward the gravel road that would lead them to the bunker, Cas cleared his throat.

"Did you ever try mentioning this to him...to me...back when it would have made a difference?"

Startled, Dean shook his head forcefully. "You and I were never much for heart-to-hearts." Something occurred to him as he downshifted. "We've probably talked more in the last day than all our other conversations combined. Hell, in the last half hour."

Cas's head snapped to one side to look intently at Dean. "So we've never actually sat down to talk about...about us."

Something squeezed in Dean's chest at the barely concealed hopeful undertone in Cas's voice. "Cas. There is no us. I..." He looked to the side. He could feel his brows turning downwards in response to the dismay that blossomed across Cas's face like an inkblot. "I know you want there to be. But whatever you remember...it isn't real."

The quiet, broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath the tires, was an ugly thing, waxen and oppressive. Dean cast about for something to say to banish it, but came up empty each time.

"You said that I used to leave all the time." Cas wasn't looking at him; he was very studiously staring at a scratch on the dashboard in front of him. "If I didn't...if I had stayed...would things have been different?"

Dean yanked at the gear shift a great deal more forcefully than was necessary, lurching the car into park. "Yes," he said shortly. "Maybe even the way you think. Maybe we wouldn't even be in this mess, and you'd still have your halo and we wouldn't have a demon in our basement. And maybe Sam would have gotten a puppy and I'd have taken up painting. It's useless to go down that road. You're here. I'm here. Let's deal with the monsters we've got right now, and leave the what-ifs at the door, all right?"

Startled by Dean's sudden vehemence, Cas nodded.

"Right." Suddenly ashamed of his outburst, Dean shouldered open the driver's side door. "Welcome home. You don't have a bed yet. Or clothes. But there's food - kind of - and showers."

"Showers," Cas said, with relish. "I smell like hospital." He looked down at his chest. "I don't think I'm supposed to get this wet, though. Any bathtubs?"

Dean looked back over his shoulder as he pulled open the door to the bunker. "This place was built and inhabited by dudes. No. No bathtubs." He jerked a thumb in the direction of town. "If you really need one, we can also pick up some moscato and a Yanni CD on the way to the nearest motel."

Cas looked as though he very much wanted to smile as he stepped through the doorway, but was holding back. "We need to work on your tendency of being horribly insulting whenever the concept of your masculinity is challenged."

Before Dean could reply to that and fall into an easy banter, Sam stepped from around the corner, a look of exhausted resignation on his face. "What?" Dean asked.

Sighing, Sam pointed above the door they'd just walked through. "We know one thing for sure now."

Dean turned. In the dim light, it didn't look like much of anything, but his eyes sought out the pattern, and the recognition made his jaw clench.

"What is it?" Cas asked, also peering at the lintel above the door.

Dean let out an explosive exhalation. "It's an angel ward." The bag on his shoulder seemed heavier than it had a moment ago. "You shouldn't have been able to come in."


End file.
